On her return from a USO tour in Korea where the troops were wolf-whistling enamoured and thunderously loving, Marilyn Monroe breathlessly told her Yankee luminary husband: “Oh Joe, you never heard such cheering.’’ To which Joe DiMaggio famously responded: “Yes, I have.’’

So too has Alex Rodriguez — prettier than Joe, almost as beautiful as Marilyn — revelled in the adoration of massive crowds, felt the roar of applause reverberating in his ears. And if never quite beloved, never as firmly gathered to the breast in pinstripes as a Derek Jeter, say, at least well on his way to Hall of Fame bronzing, following in the footsteps of the DiMaggios and the Mantles and the Jacksons, R.

Not anymore.

What the embattled third baseman hears now are boos and jeers and endless leather-lunged derision. There’s no Hall in hell.

Everywhere he goes, the abuse is hurled, turning baseball into a blood sport. CHEATER! HIT HIM IN THE HEAD! STICK A NEEDLE IN YOUR A--!

The braying followed A-Rod to the Rogers Centre over the past three nights. When his name flashed on the Jumbotron during pre-game lineup announcements, every time he came to bat, on each occasion that he played a ball in the field — and most especially when the ball played him badly, as if it too was in on the snark, like when J.P. Arencibia’s high chopper in the third left Rodriguez no throw to first.

“We expected this reaction in Boston, in Texas, even in Minnesota,’’ said a member of the New York broadcasting crew. “I don’t think Alex ever expected it in Toronto.’’

So, we’re as scathing, as bilious, as morally high in the saddle as any other ballpark mob. Yay us, I guess.

It’s three hours before game-time Wednesday when a reporter sidles up to Rodriguez at his locker in the visiting clubhouse and asks for a word. “What do you want to talk about?’’ Um, home runs maybe — including the brace of them No. 13 unleashed here, Monday and Tuesday — putting him at 651 for his career, just nine shy of tying the revered Willie Mays and raking in the $6 million (U.S.) bonus written into his contract.

He narrows those startlingly mesmerizing green eyes, clearly dubious. Because the thing is, A-Rod has stopped talking about the Biogenesis scandal and his palpably toxic relationship with a New York ownership that would obviously prefer a whole lot of gone between club and fallen star, and the 211-game suspension he received for using performance enhancing drugs — a PED carved into his forehead, like Hester Prynne’s Scarlet A. The suspension, of course, is on appeal and Rodriguez — as perfectly allowed under the collective bargaining agreement — entitled to keep on playing until the matter is ruled on by arbitrator Frederic Horowitz, which should happen over the winter.

A fortnight ago, A-Rod — latterly, A-Roid — brought down the cone of silence on the caterwauling sideshow that had been his restoration to the Yankee lineup for the first time since hip surgery in January. He muzzled his lawyer and his PR posse. He told reporters on the beat there’d be no more discussion of that thing. He would, however, talk baseball, as per relevancy.

Here’s the relevant: The return of Rodriguez has stoked the Yankee offence — four jacks in 78 at-bats through 21 games — as New York continues its quixotic bid for a wild-card playoff berth, an aspiration set back considerably by losing two out of three in Toronto, 7-2 Wednesday night. If the Gothams have any hope in hell of a post-season life, they need Rodriguez and they need him in his hitting hotness. This is bitter gruel for owner Hal Steinbrenner and GM Brian Cashman.

Crunching the numbers, projecting his HR output over the remaining 29 games — assuming his hip holds up — Rodriguez is on pace to go yard another six times this season. But who knows? There is the possibility, however slim, that the steroid poster boy can pull even with Mays at 660 career homers, which would put him fourth on the all-time list behind Barry Bonds (sigh), Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth.

Might that not deserve a pre-game commemorative ceremony at Yankee Stadium, some time next April, with the brass down on the field? And isn’t that almost too delicious to imagine?

Rodriguez is the villain-of-the-hour, perhaps of the decade, the beast with the cloven hooves. I have to remind myself — and remind you — that he’s merely a baseball cheater (as was Mays, towards the end, with his “red juice’’ liquid amphetamines) and not Bashar Assad using chemical weapons against his own citizens.

B.C.-born Ryan Dempster, in one of the most bush displays I can recall, threw four consecutive pitches at Rodriguez a fortnight ago in Boston, finally drilling him, and a great many people across the baseball universe cheered. Honestly? I cheered Rodriguez when his sixth inning home run off Dempster sparked a rally that lifted New York over the Red Sox 9-6.

A-Rod may be doing it for the money, he may be doing it for another bid at the post-season, he may be doing it to salvage something out of the shame and ashes that his career has become.

But Rodriguez took that lonely walk to the plate four times last night, assailed and vilified on all sides. He had an RBI single and struck out three times. Oh, the crowd’s delight on every whiff!

He said it doesn’t hurt: The boos, the taunts, the invective.

I don’t believe him.

I think it hurts a great deal. And you know what? Another human’s misery gives me no pleasure.